


Evidence of Things Unseen

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cigarettes, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Philosophy, Religions, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cynicism is best shared over a lit cigarette and a bottle of alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evidence of Things Unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dogstardreams](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dogstardreams).



> Written for [Dogstardreams](http://dogstardreams.livejournal.com/), for [FrUK_giftbasket](http://community.livejournal.com/fruk_giftbasket/). She wanted 'cigarettes in the rain'.
> 
> Title comes from Hebrews 11:1. _"Faith is the substance of all things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."_ Partially inspired by the fact that while France has very religious Catholic roots, these days it's considered one of the _least_ religious countries in the world.
> 
> I really like this one. I think I captured the quintessential Frenchy-Brit qualities of these two.

The met in the bar by sheer coincidence.

In some ways it was probably inevitable. There are only so many bars in Washington D.C. that are within walking distance of both their embassies.

After the traditional scowling and protests that they absolutely will _not_ eat in the company of the other, they settled down together in a cozy corner out of the way of most of the bustle. France spent ten minutes (or so it seemed to England) flirting with the waitress before they were finally allowed to give her their orders. England spent most of that time drumming his fingers on the table impatiently and muttering. As the waitress finally turned to place their orders, England just glared as France lovingly admired her retreating form.

"Are you bloody done yet?" England growled.

France clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You should relax, Angleterre. So much stress is not good for you, it gives you wrinkles. Though to be fair, they are hardly noticeable under those caterpillars you insist on wearing on your face."

The manager did not take kindly to England's attempt to leap across the table and strangle France, so they were quickly escorted outside and told politely to please not return. England thought this was rather unfair and thought about lodging a complaint, but France simply sighed and pulled a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

This drew England's attention immediately, but France paid him no attention and turned his back on him, starting to walk down the street as he shook a cigarette out into his hand and started to tuck the package back into his coat. England debated with himself for a moment, remembering his previous experiences with disgusting French fags.

But, to be fair, that had been in a trench under less than ideal conditions, huddled together in the mud as they were, hands cupped around in a desperate attempt to keep the wind from blowing out the last fag they had between them as they passed it back and forth.

In the end, that memory was what spurred England to trot after France, snatching the packet out of his hand. France swore at him affectionately, cigarette dangling from his lips, but didn't try to take the package back until England had claimed his own cigarette. He slid the packet back into his pocket and was palming his lighter when the sky opened up above them.

Swearing and sliding in the rain, they both made it under a nearby overhang before they got entirely soaked. England shook raindrops off the hem of his coat with an angry shake, and France gave him a sly look out of the corner of his eye as he finally pulled his lighter out. "Such lovely English weather you've brought with you, Angleterre."

England scowled at him, snatching the lighter away the moment France had inhaled enough for his cigarette to catch. France blew a stream of smoke out into the rain as England lit his own, then handed the lighter back. "Shut up, it'll clear up soon enough."

"Ah," France nodded. "The eternal English optimism, eternally in search of sun."

England growled, debating the merits of kicking France out into the rain. But he knew from experience that France tended to fight back, so they would undoubtedly both end up wet and muddy. All in all, not worth the effort. "It's not optimism. You just have to have faith."

"Faith in what, my dear?"

England paused, staring out into the rain as he thought about that. On the other side of the street, two girls were running down the street, jostling each other as they both tried to stay under the same umbrella. What did he have faith in? That was a very good question indeed.

"If you say 'faith in God'," France continued after a short silence, as matter of fact as though they were discussing the price of beer. "I will tap my ashes into your hair."

England frowned, taking another drag on his cigarette before looking over at France. "And what is wrong with faith in God?"

France laughed, a soft, bitter sound. "Oh Angleterre, are you really so naive after all this time?"

England's frown sharped defensively. "You're calling _me_ naive, France? I've seen just as much over the years as you have."

"Oh yes," France agreed readily, voice still sounding bitter. "And yet you still persist in having faith in a god." He shook his head, cutting England off before he could say anything. "I do not understand how this supposed god of love could leave his children to die in the trenches of foot rot, to hang on barbed wire and bleed, to suffer and die and yet still they sing his praises."

England didn't know how to answer that, so he didn't, staring out at the pouring rain as they smoked. The silence wasn't exactly companionable, but nor was it as strained as someone who knew them both might assume. After France's ragged breathing had calmed to something more resembling normal levels, England spoke, having had time to gather his thoughts. "They need to have something to fight for, something to believe in. Whether they're fighting for their country," they both twitched slightly, having come to hate that particular phrasing after too many wars, "Or fighting for God, it all comes out the same in the end, doesn't it? Would you rather it be you who left them on the wires to bleed?"

"I tried," France murmured, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "I tried to save them."

England barked a laugh. "We all did."

The two fell into silence again, remembering dragging bodies back from the front lines, bodies tangled in razor wire and bodies half blown apart from shells and machine gun fire. Worse were the ones who'd been caught by the clouds of noxious gases, covered in chemical burns and often screaming in pain. France remembered coming across Canada, tears rolling down his cheeks and his hands and forearms torn and bleeding as he tried to untangle one of his soldiers from the wire. England could remember America, the front of his uniform splashed in blood, Red Cross armband firmly in place and his face so very intent as he bent over the casualties, saving as many as he could.

France dropped the stub end of his cigarette to the wet pavement, grinding the last embers out with his heel as he reached into his coat to retrieve the pack again. "The war to end all wars. Such a lie."

"We believed it at the time," England reminded him, still staring out into the rain. "We had to, or risk going mad." He took a long drag on his cigarette, finishing it off and holding out his hand in silent demand of a new one. France complied with a snort.

"Maybe that's the point of it all," England continued once the cigarettes had been lit. "Faith. To keep us from going mad. Perhaps it really doesn't matter what you have faith in, so long as it's something."

"Perhaps it works that way for humans," France shrugged. "They can afford to fritter away their lives in prayer and supplication for things that will never come. But you and I, Angleterre? If there is such a thing as a god, do you really think he cares for the likes of us?"

"Pessimist," England commented, glancing over at his companion.

"Realist," France countered. "I have seen too much death to have faith any longer, my dear. Perhaps that makes you better than I, that you still can."

England made a non-committal sound, straightening up a bit from his slouch against the wall. "It looks like the rain's letting up."

"At last," France rolled his eyes upward in a mockery of their recent conversation. "I would be forced to strangle you if you begged another of my good cigarettes."

"You call those 'good'?" England's eyebrows crept upward in sheer disbelief. "The ones we had in the trenches were _better_, I think."

France scowled at him and shoved him out from under the awning, but England just laughed at him since the rain had lightened to a drizzle. He cupped his hand over the remainder of the cigarette, puffing madly and blowing a smoke ring just to watch France snarl.

Overhead, the clouds had lightened considerably. Though it was still drizzling wetly, the clouds parted enough to allow a particularly ambitious sunbeam to break through and paint a rainbow across the sky.

The owner of the store whose awning they had been sheltering under had been watching them, wondering what they were talking about that made them look so solemn. She thought they looked like nice boys, probably young interns for the government. Perhaps they were aids to someone important. Too curious for her own good, she'd been about to step outside and offer for them to come inside and wait out the rain. And so, she was standing there watching as the rain slowed, and with it their mood seemed to break. She shook her head as the strange young men in the long overcoats and expensive shoes walked away, nudging each other and trading the last remaining cigarette back and forth between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Trenches: WWI, when British and French (and Canadian, and much later American) soldiers shared the trenches that ran across most of France. Conditions were miserable, disease was everywhere, and cigarettes might as well have been made of solid gold for how precious they were.
> 
> Fag: Probably goes without saying, but fag is rather crude British slang for a cigarette.
> 
> America: My personal headcanon is that rather than being a soldier like many other Nations, he tends to take on the role of a medic during times of war.
> 
> Rainbow: In the Book of Genesis in the Bible, there is the story of Noah's Ark and the great flood. After the Ark survived the flood, it's said that God created the first rainbow as a promise that he would never again flood the entire world. Since then, the rainbow has been a symbol of faith and promise.
> 
> _Random fun fact:_ The bar they met in was most likely the Bistrot Lepic and Wine Bar, a real bar in downtown DC located roughly halfway between the British and French embassies. They're known for their French food and wine, which I'm sure made England scowl a lot but there really aren't any other bars in the area.


End file.
